Part 1

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LEGEND

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO · DALLAS ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO

MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA MELBOURNE

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. TORONTO

LEGEND

by

CLEMENCE DANE

Author of “Regiment of Women” and “First the Blade”

New York The Macmillan Company 1920 All rights reserved

Copyright, 1920 by the Macmillan Company

Set up and electrotyped. Published January, 1920.

[Music: BEETHOVEN, Op. 57.]

LEGEND

_Messrs. Mitchell and Bent will shortly issue ‘The Life of Madala Grey’ by Anita Serle: a critical biography based largely on private correspondence and intimate personal knowledge._

That was in _The Times_ a fortnight ago. And now the reviews are beginning—

_The Cult of Madala Grey_....

_The Problem of Madala Grey_....

_The Secret of Madala Grey_....

I wish they wouldn’t. Oh, I _wish_ they wouldn’t.

_No admirer of the late Madala Grey’s arresting art can fail to be absorbed by these intimate and unexpected revelations_....

_Delicately, unerringly, Miss Serle traces to its source the inspiration of that remarkable writer.... And—this will please Anita most of all_—

_We ourselves have never joined in the chorus of praise that, a decade ago, greeted the appearance of ‘Eden Walls’ and its successors, and in our opinion Miss Serle, in her biographical enthusiasm, uses the word genius a little too often and too easily. Madala Grey has yet to be tried by that subtlest of literary critics, the Man with the Scythe. But whether or not we agree with Miss Serle’s estimate of her heroine, there can be no_ _two questions as to the literary value of the ‘Life’ itself. It definitely places Miss Serle among the Boswells, and as we close its fascinating pages we find ourselves wondering whether our grandchildren will remember Miss Serle as the biographer of Madala Grey, or Madala Grey as the subject matter merely, of a chronicle that has become a classic._

That is to say—_La reine est morte. Vive la reine!_ Anita will certainly be pleased. Well, I suppose she’s got what she wants, what she’s always wanted. She isn’t a woman to change. The new portrait in the _Bookman_ might have been taken when I knew her: the mouth’s a trifle harder, the hair a trifle greyer; but no real change. But it amuses me that there should be her portrait in all the papers, and none of Madala Grey; not even in the _Life_ itself. I can hear Anita’s regretful explanations in her soft, convincing voice. She will make a useful little paragraph out of it—

_Miss Serle, whose ‘Life of Madala Grey’ is causing no small stir in literary circles, tells us that the brilliant novelist had so great a dislike of being photographed that there is no record of her features in existence. An odd foible in one who, in our own recollection, was not only a popular writer but a strikingly beautiful woman._

And yet, from her heavy, solitary frame (we have no other pictures in our den) that ‘beautiful woman,’ with her flowered scarf and her handful of cowslips, is looking down at this moment at me—at me, and the press cuttings, and _The Times_, and Anita’s hateful book. And she says, unmistakably—‘Does it matter? What does it matter?’ laughing a little as she says it.

Then I laugh too, because Anita knows all about the portrait.

After all, does it matter? Does it matter what Anita says and does and writes? And why should I of all people grudge Anita her success? Honestly, I don’t. And I don’t doubt that the book is well written: not that I shall read it. There’s no need: I know exactly what she will have written: I know how convincing it will be. But it won’t be true. It won’t be Madala Grey.

Of course Anita would say—‘My dear Jenny, what do you know about it? You never even met her. You heard us, her friends, her intimates, talking about her for—how long? An hour? Two hours? And on the strength of that—that eaves-dropping five years ago’ (I can hear the nip in her voice still) ‘you are so amusing as to challenge my personal knowledge of my dearest friend. Possibly you contemplate writing the story of Madala Grey yourself? If so, pray send me a copy.’ And then the swish of her skirt. She always wore trains in those days, and she always glided away before one could answer.

But I could answer. I remember that evening so well. I don’t believe I’ve forgotten a word or a movement, and if I could only write it down, those two hours would tell, as Anita’s book never will, the story of Madala Grey.

I ought to be able to write; because Anita is my mother’s cousin; though I never saw her till I was eighteen.

Mother died when I was eighteen.

If she had not been ill so long it would have been harder. As it was—but there’s no use in writing down that black time. Afterwards I didn’t know what to do. The pension had stopped, of course. I’d managed to teach myself typing, though Mother couldn’t be left much; but I didn’t know shorthand, and I couldn’t get work, and my money was dwindling, and I was getting scared. I was ready to worship Anita when her letter came. She was sorry about Mother and she wanted a secretary. If I could type I could come.

I remember how excited I was. I’d always lived in such a tiny place and we couldn’t afford Mudie’s. To go to London, and meet interesting people, and live with a real writer, seemed too good to be true. And it helped that Anita and her mother were relations. Mother used to stay with Great-aunt Serle when she was little. Somehow that made things easier to me when I was missing Mother more than usual.

In the end, after all those expectations, I was only three weeks with Anita. They were a queer three weeks. I was afraid of her. She was one of those people who make you feel guilty. But she was kind to me. I typed most of the day, for she was a fluent worker and never spared either of us; but she took me to the theatre once, and I used to pour out when interesting people came to tea. In the first fortnight I met nine novelists and a poet; but I never found out who they were, because they all called each other by their Christian names and you couldn’t ask Anita questions. She had such a way of asking you why you asked. She used to glide about the room in a cloud of chiffon and cigarette smoke—she had half-shut pale eyes just the colour of the smoke—and pour out a stream of beautiful English in a pure cool voice; but if they interrupted her she used to stiffen and stop dead and in a minute she had glided away and begun to talk to someone else. Old Mrs. Serle used to sit in a corner and knit. She never dropped a stitch; but she always had her eyes on Anita. She was different from the rest of my people. She had an accent, not cockney exactly, but odd. She had had a hard life, I believe. Mother said of her once that her courage made up for everything. But she never told me what the everything was. Great-aunt’s memory was shaky. One day she would scarcely know you, and another day she would be sensible and kind, very kind. She liked parties. People used to come and talk to her because she made them laugh; but every now and then, when Anita was being brilliant about something, she would put up her long gnarled finger and say—‘Hush! Listen to my daughter!’ and her eyes would twinkle. But I never knew if she were proud of her or not.

Everybody said that Anita was brilliant. She could take a book to pieces so that you saw every good bit and every bad bit separated away into little compartments. But she spoiled things for you, books and people, at least she did for me. She sneered. She said of the Baxter girl once, for instance—‘She’s really too tactful. If you go to tea with her you are sure to be introduced to your oldest friend.’ And again—‘She always likes the right people for the wrong reasons.’

Of course one knows what she meant, but I liked the Baxter girl all the same. Beryl Baxter—but everyone called her the Baxter girl. She was kind to me because I was Anita’s cousin, and she used to talk to me when Anita wasn’t in the mood for her. She asked me to call her ‘Beryl’ almost at once. Anita used to be awfully rude to her sometimes, and then again she would have her to supper and spend an evening going through her MSS. and I could tell that she was giving her valuable help. The Baxter girl used to listen and agree so eagerly and take it away to re-write. I thought she was dreadfully grateful. I hated to hear her. And when she was gone Anita would lean back in her chair with a dead look on her face and say—

“God help her readers! Jenny, open the window. That girl reeks of patchouli.” And then—“Why do I waste my time?”

And Great-aunt Serle in her corner would chuckle and poke and mutter, but not loud—

“Why does she waste her time? Listen to my daughter!”

The next time the Baxter girl came Anita would hardly speak to her.

The Baxter girl seemed to take it as a matter of course. But once she said to me, with a look on her face as if she were defending herself—

“Ah—but you don’t write. You’re not keen. You don’t know what it means to be in the set.”

“But such heaps of people come to see Anita,” I said, “people she hardly knows.”

“They’re only the fringes,” said the Baxter girl complacently. “They’re not in the Grey set. They don’t come to the Nights. At least, only a few. Jasper Flood, of course—You’ve met him, haven’t you?—and Lila Howe—_Masquerade_, you know, and _Sir Fortinbras_.” The Baxter girl always ticketed everyone she mentioned. “And the Whitneys. She used to stay with the Whitneys. And Roy Huth. And of course Kent Rehan.”

“Kent Rehan?”

“_The_ Kent Rehan,” said the Baxter girl.

Then I remembered. The vicar’s wife always sent Mother the Academy catalogue after she had been up to town. I used to cut out the pictures I liked, and I liked Kent Rehan’s. They had wind blowing through them, and sunshine, and jolly blobs that I knew must be raw colour, and always the same woman. But you could never see her face, only a cheek curve or a shoulder line. They were in the catalogue every year, and so I told the Baxter girl. She laughed.

“Yes, he’s always on the line. Anita says that’s the worst she knows of him. And of course the veiled lady——” she laughed again, knowingly, “But there is one full face, I believe. _The Spring Song_ he calls it. But it’s never been shown. Anita’s seen it. She told me. He keeps it locked away in his studio. They say he’s in love with her.”

“With whom?”

“Madala Grey, of course.”

I said—

“Who is Madala Grey?”

The Baxter girl had sunk into the cushions until she was prone. I had been wondering with the bit of mind that wasn’t listening what the people at home would have said to her, with her cobweb stockings (it was November) and her coloured combs and her sprawl. It was a relief to see her sit up suddenly.

“‘Who’s Madala Grey!’” Her mouth stayed open after she’d finished the sentence.

“Yes,” I said. “Who is she?”

“You mean to say you’ve never heard of Madala Grey? You’ve never read _Eden Walls_? Is there anyone in England who hasn’t read _Eden Walls_?”

“Heaps,” I said. She annoyed me. She—they—they all thought me a fool at Anita’s.

The Baxter girl sighed luxuriously.

“My word, I envy you! I wish I was reading _Eden Walls_ for the first time—or _Ploughed Fields_. I don’t care so much about _The Resting-place_.” She laughed. “At least—one’s not supposed to care about _The Resting-place_, you know. It’s as much as one’s life’s worth—one’s literary life.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Sentimental. Anita says so. She says she doesn’t know what happened to her over _The Resting-place_.”

“I like the title,” I said.

“Yes, so do I. And I love the opening where——Oh, but you haven’t read it. And you’re Anita’s cousin! What a comedy! Just like Anita, though, not to speak of her.”

“Why? Doesn’t Anita like her?”

The Baxter girl was flat on the cushions again. She looked at me with those furtive eyes that always so strangely qualified her garrulity.

“Are you shrewd? Or was that chance?”

“What?”

“‘Doesn’t Anita like her?’”

“Doesn’t she then?”

“Ah, now you’re asking! Officially, very much. Too much, _I_ should say. And too much is just the same as the other thing, I think. Would you like Anita for your bosom friend?”

Naturally I said—

“Anita’s been very kind to me.” Anita’s my cousin, after all. I didn’t like the Baxter girl’s tone.

“Oh, she’s been kind to me.” The Baxter girl caught me up quickly. She was like a sensitive plant for all her crudity. “Oh, I admire Anita. She’s the finest judge of style in England. Jasper Flood says so. You mustn’t think I say a word against Anita. Very kind to me she’s been.” Then, innocently, but her eyes were flickering again—“She was kind to Madala too, till——”

“Well?” I demanded.

“Till Madala was kind to her. Madala’s one of those big people. She’ll never forget what she owes Anita—what Anita told her she owed her. After she made her own name she made Anita’s. Anita, being Anita, doesn’t forget that.”

“How d’you mean—made Anita’s name?”

“Well, look at the people who come here—the people who count. What do you think the draw was? Anita? Oh yes, _now_. But they came first for Madala. Oh, those early days when _Eden Walls_ was just out! Of course Anita had sense for ten. She ran Madala for all she was worth.”

“Then you do like Madala Grey?”

“I?” The Baxter girl looked at me oddly. “She read my book. She wrote to me. That’s why Anita took me up. She let me come to the Nights. She started them, you know. Somebody reads a story or a poem, and then it’s talk till the milkman comes. Good times! But now Madala’s married she doesn’t come often. Anita carries on like grim death, of course. But it’s not the same. Last month it was dreary.”

“Is it every month?”

“Yes. It’s tomorrow again. Tomorrow’s Sunday, isn’t it? It’ll amuse you. You’ll come, of course, as you’re in the house.”

“Will she? Herself?” I found myself reproducing the Baxter girl’s eagerness.

“Not now.” The common voice had deepened queerly. “She’s very ill.” She hesitated. “That’s why I came today. I thought Anita might have heard. Not my business, of course, but——” She made an awkward, violent gesture with her hands. “Oh, a genius oughtn’t to marry. It’s wicked waste. Well, so long! See you tomorrow night!”

She left me abruptly.

I found myself marking time, as it were, all through that morrow, as if the evening were of great importance. The Baxter girl was always unsettling, or it may have been Anita’s restlessness that affected me. Anita was on edge. She was writing, writing, all the morning. She was at her desk when I came down. There was a mass of packets and papers in front of her and an empty coffee cup. I believe she had been writing all night. She had that white look round her eyes. But she didn’t need any typing done. Early in the afternoon she went out and at once Great-aunt, in her corner, put down her knitting with a little catch of her breath. But she didn’t talk: she sat watching the door. I had been half the day at the window, fascinated by the fog. I’d never seen a London fog before. I found myself writing a letter in my head to Mother about it, about the way it would change from black to yellow and then clear off to let in daylight and sparrow-talk and the tramp-tramp of feet, and then back again to silence, and the sun like a ball that you could reach up to with your hand and hold. I was deep in my description—and then, of a sudden, I remembered that she wasn’t there to write to any more. It was so hard to remember always that she was dead. I got up quickly and went to Anita’s shelves for a book. Great-aunt hadn’t noticed anything. She was still watching the door.

The little back room that opened on to the staircase was lined to the ceiling with books, all so tidy and alphabetical. Anita lived for books, but I used to wonder why. She didn’t love them. Her books never opened friendlily at special places, and they hadn’t the proper smell. I ran my finger along the ‘G’s’ and pulled out _Eden Walls_.

I began in the middle of course. One always falls into the middle of a real person’s life, and a book is a person. There’s always time to find out their beginning afterwards when you’ve decided to be friends. It isn’t always worth while. But it was with _Eden Walls_. I liked the voice in which the story was being told. Soon I began to feel happier. Then I began to feel excited. It said things I’d always thought, you know. It was extraordinary that it knew how I felt about things. There’s a bit where the heroine comes to town and the streets scare her, because they go on, and on, and on, always in straight lines, like a corridor in a dream. Now how did she know of that dream? I turned back to the first page and began to read steadily.

When Anita’s voice jerked me back to real life it was nearly dark. She was speaking to Great-aunt as she took off her wraps—

“The fog’s confusing. I had to take a taxi to the tube. A trunk call is an endless business.”

“Well?” said Great-aunt.

“Nothing fresh.”

“Did _he_ answer?”

Anita nodded.

“Was he——? Is she——? Did you ask——? What did he tell you, Anita?”

Anita stabbed at her hat with her long pins. She was flushing.

“The usual details. He spares you nothing. Have you had tea, Mother?” She rang the bell.

Great-aunt beat her hand on the arm of her chair in a feeble, restless way. When I brought her tea she said to me in her confidential whisper—

“Give it to my daughter. She’s tired. She’ll tell us when she’s not so tired.”

She settled herself again to watch; but she watched Anita, not the door.

And in a few minutes Anita did say, as the Baxter girl had said—

“She’s very ill.” And then—“I always told you we ought to have a telephone. I can’t be running out all the evening.”

“Do they come tonight?” said Great-aunt Serle.

Anita answered her coldly—

“They do. Why not?”

Great-aunt tittered.

“Why not? Why not? Listen, little Jenny!”

Anita, as usual, was quite patient.

“Mother, you mustn’t excite yourself. Jenny, give Mother some more tea. What good would it do Madala to upset my arrangements? Besides, Kent will have the latest news. I think you may trust him.” She gave that little laugh that was Great-aunt’s titter grown musical. Then she turned to me.

“By the way, Jenny, I expect friends tonight. You needn’t change, as you’re in mourning. You’ll see to the coffee, please. We’ll have the door open and the coffee in the little room. You might do it now while I dress.”

The big drawing-room was divided from the little outer room by a curtained door. It was closed in the day-time for cosiness’ sake, but when it was flung back the room was a splendid one. The small room held the books and a chair or two, and a chesterfield facing the door that opened on to the passage and the narrow twisting stairs. They were so dark that Anita kept a candle and matches in the hall; but one seldom troubled to light it. It was quicker to fumble one’s way. Anita used to long for electric light; but she would not install it. Anita had good taste. The house was old, and old-fashioned it should stay.

I fastened back the door and re-arranged the furniture, and was sitting down to _Eden Walls_ again when Great-aunt beckoned me.

“Go and dress, my dear!”

“But Anita said——” I began.

She held me by the wrist, all nods and smiles and hoarse whispers.

“The pretty dress—to show a pretty throat—isn’t there a pretty dress somewhere? I know! Put it on. Put it on. What a white throat! I’ve a necklace somewhere—but then Anita would know. Mustn’t tell Anita!”

She pulled me down to her with fumbling, shaky hands.

“Tell me, Jenny, where’s my daughter?”

“Upstairs, Auntie.”

“Tell me, Jenny—any news? Any news, Jenny?”

I didn’t know what to say to her. I was afraid of hurting her. She was so shaking and pitiful.

“Is it about Miss Grey, Auntie?”

“Carey, Jenny—Carey. Mrs. John Carey. Good name. Good man. But Anita don’t like him. Anita won’t tell me. You tell me, Jenny!”

“Auntie, it’s all right. It’s all right. She’ll tell you, of course, when she hears again.” And I soothed her as well as I could, till she let me loosen her hand from my wrist, and kiss her, and start her at her knitting again, so that I could finish making ready the room. But as I went to wash my hands she called to me once more.

“Yes, Auntie?”

“Put it on, Jenny. Don’t ask my daughter. Put it on.”

She was a queer old woman. She made me want to cry sometimes. She was so frightened always, and yet so game.

But I went upstairs after supper and put on the frock she liked. Black, of course, but with Mother’s lace fichu I liked myself in it too. I did my hair high. I don’t know why I took so much trouble except that I wanted to cheer myself up. It had been a depressing day in spite of _Eden Walls_. I looked forward to the stir of visitors. And then I was curious to see Kent Rehan.

When I came down the Baxter girl was already there, standing all by herself at the fire. She was strikingly dressed; but she looked stranded. I wondered if Anita had been snubbing her.

Anita was shaking hands with Mr. Flood and with a lady whom I had not seen before. She was blonde, with greenish-golden hair and round eyes, very black eyes that had no lights in them, not even when she smiled. She often smiled. She had a drawling voice and hardly spoke at all, except to Mr. Flood. If he talked to anyone else or walked away from her, she would watch him for a minute, and then say—‘Jasper’ with a sort of purr, not troubling to raise her voice. But he always heard and came. She wore a wonderful Chinese shawl, white, with gold dragons worked on it, and whenever she moved it set the dragons crawling. She was powdered and red-lipped like a clown, and I didn’t really like her, but nevertheless there was something about her that was queerly attractive. When she smiled at me because I gave her coffee, I felt quite elated. But I didn’t like her. Mr. Flood called her ‘Blanche.’ I never heard her other name.

Anita seemed very pleased to see them. I caught scraps.

“Am so glad—one’s friends about one—such a strain waiting for news. I phoned this afternoon. No, the usual phrases. Anxious, of course, but I should certainly have heard if——Good of you to come! No chance of the Whitneys, I’m afraid—too much fog. And what are you reading to us?”

The Baxter girl, as I greeted her, stripped and re-dressed me with one swift look.

“My dear, it suits you! I wish I could look Victorian. But I’m vile in black. Have you seen Lila? I met her on the step. They’ve turned down _Sir Fortinbras_ in America. Isn’t it rotten luck? Anita said they would. Anita’s always right. Any more news of Madala?”

Anita overheard her. She was suddenly gracious to the Baxter girl.